


Labyrinth

by lordbyronsbloomers



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordbyronsbloomers/pseuds/lordbyronsbloomers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A winter storm rolls into Oxford and nothing is what it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Labyrinth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A winter storm rolls into Oxford and things aren't what they seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place a few weeks after the events of "Home."

It was 7:15am and Morse was late.

In all the months as Thursday's bagman, Morse had always arrived on time. Sometimes if he was feeling chatty (which, granted, wasn't often) he would even arrive a few minutes early so he could say hello to Win and the kids. The Thursdays had taken quickly to the lad and had truly enjoyed the few minutes he spent with them in the mornings, but that was before Morse's father passed in November.

After that, Morse altered his routine. First, he stopped coming early, and then he stopped getting out of the car. Now a part of Thursday wondered if he was simply going to stop coming altogether.  

Brushing the toast crumbs from his lapel, Thursday stood up and wandered over to the kitchen window. He drew back the yellow and white checkered curtains to look out onto the empty lane, where fat wet snowflakes were beginning to fall. The man on the morning radio had said a winter storm was rolling in and Thursday expected this was only the beginning of something much worse. He let the curtain fall back as he was suddenly struck by the memory of the first time he had taken Sam driving in the snow - Sam had nearly taken out their elderly neighbor, Mrs. Lyon, as the car had skidded on a patch of icy road.  

"Do you think the lad got in a wreck?"

“Oh, stop your worrying - the roads are fine," Joan said, joining him at the window. She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "I'm sure he's just running a bit late. I'm late to work all the time - nothing to worry about.” 

"What part of that am I supposed to find comforting?"

" _Dad_."

With a sigh, Thursday sat back down at the table. In an attempt to distract himself, he picked up the front page of the morning paper. He was met, however, with the rather disconcerting headline, "SECOND BODY FOUND IN CHERWELL - WHO WILL BE NEXT?" No doubt the work of Ms. Dorothea Frazil, who had never been one for subtlety. 

“I’m sure he’s fine, Fred,” Win said. As if sensing what he was thinking, she took away the front page and handed him the comics instead. She pocketed the paper before popping two more slices of bread in the toaster for Sam, who had just shuffled groggily into the kitchen.

"Who're we talking 'bout?" Sam asked, plopping himself down at the table.

"Morse is running a bit late," Win said, placing a mug of coffee down in front him.

Sam yawned loudly in thanks. “Probably overslept."

“He's not had an easy time," Win said, with a frown. "God knows the boy needs the rest.”

Joan hummed in assent as she took a quick sip of Sam's coffee. "He's always got those awful bags under his eyes. Needs a day off if you ask me." She looked pointedly at Thursday, who promptly rolled his eyes.

“Yes, yes, all right,” Thursday said, waving them away as he went to go sit in the parlor to light his pipe. The damned thing was being a bit finnicky, and it took him a few matches to get the tobacco to catch. When it finally did, he eased himself into his armchair and breathed in the warm, biting smoke. It took a few minutes for his heartbeat to slow, for his nerves to calm, but he still felt that parental worry in the back of his mind, the worry that had been there ever since the death of Morse's father. Ever since, there was a melancholy about Morse that he didn't trust - a look around the eyes that made Thursday afraid to leave him alone for too long. 

“I’ll give the lad fifteen more minutes," he murmured.

 

 

 ***

Morse was officially late and so, naturally, Jakes lit a cigarette in celebration.

Jakes liked to think of himself as a man of simple pleasures. There were really only three things that brought him joy in life: smoking, sex, and Morse’s misfortunes. Taking a deep drag on his cigarette, Jakes thought that two out of the three wasn’t half bad at 7:30 in the morning, and there was always time for the third later that night. All in all, the day was shaping up to be a good one, even if the weather was absolute hell.

Breathing in the bitter smoke, he turned his attention to the first of the files sitting on his desk: something concerning a drowned person pulled from the river in the night - the second one that month. Frankly, Jakes thought it was suicide, what with the Oxford students nearing exams and all. It was sad, yes, but he'd seen it before in his early years with the force. They'd have to identify the victim first, of course, and then interview family, friends, tutors - a lot of work for an obvious conclusion, in his opinion. Jakes couldn't wait to pawn the case off on Morse when he finally decided to drag his sorry ass into work.

It was ten till eight when PC Strange walked into the office, bringing with him the heavy scent of stale coffee. Jakes wrinkled his nose and kept his eyes pasted on the file he was going over (a car theft from a student at Trinity). He knew he was being rude, but he didn't have time for Morse's lackey, who was probably just there to give some sorry excuse for the DC's tardiness. But Strange just kept standing there, and eventually Jakes forced himself to speak, though he kept his eyes firmly facing downward.

"Can I help you?" he asked, hoping his tone conveyed the perfect combination of annoyance and aloofness.

“You seen Morse this morning?”

Jakes couldn't help but look up in sheer exasperation. “ _No_ ,” he said, as he was offended by the very suggestion. “Why?”

“DI Thursday’s just rung - said Morse never picked him up."

“Did his lordship decide to sleep in today?” Jakes tapped his cigarette on the ashtray on his desk, chuckling at his own joke. He chose to ignore the worried look on Strange's face.

"It's not like Morse to be late."

"He's a grown man," Jakes muttered, looking back down at the files on his desk. "He can take care of himself."

"His dad just died."

"I'm well aware of that, PC Strange," Jakes said, bristling at his tone. "But parents die. It's unfortunate, but that's the way life works out. Morse seems to be taking it as well as anyone."

"He's not taking it well - maybe you'd have noticed if you weren't so busy spending your time worrying about your socks matching your neckties."

Jakes couldn't believe a PC was speaking to him in such a way, and he looked up to tell him so. When he saw the look of rage that had appeared on Strange's face, however, he quickly shut his mouth. Strange may not have been the toughest looking bloke at the station, but he was _big_ and, as Jakes discovered, his 6'3" frame was pretty bloody terrifying when he was angry. He shifted uncomfortably under Strange's gaze and almost felt inclined to apologize.

But, of course, he did not.

Strange continued to stare at him for a few seconds longer and then, quite suddenly, the moment passed. Strange grunted, as if embarrassed. "Anyways," he finally said, "I'm to tell you that DI Thursday wants you to be his bagman today. He needs a lift to the station. Alright?"

Jakes snubbed out his cigarette and pulled on his coat. “Alright," he said, but Strange had already left the room.  

 

 

***

Thursday was drumming his fingers irritably on the kitchen table when Win finally called out, “He’s here!” 

He put on his coat and hat and moved to join her in the parlor, where he found her sipping a cup of tea and reading the paper. He wished he could see her like this more often, after the morning rush of breakfast and shuffling the kids off to work and school. A part of him wanted to take his coat right back off and just sit there with her for the rest of the day - her mere presence had always been able to calm him and, God, he needed that at the moment.

Sensing his stare, Win looked up from the paper. As always, she read his face like an open book, and said, “You know, I’m sure everything’s fine with the boy.”

Thursday forced a small smile. "It's just this weather - it makes me nervous."

"I know, dear."

Outside, there was the sound of a car door slamming and the soft crunching of footsteps through the snow. Win took this as her cue to go upstairs. She wasn't entirely fond of Jakes (something about the perpetual smirk plastered on his face) and always made a point of vacating the premises whenever he came over. Before going up to their bedroom, however, she leaned in towards Thursday and gave him a quick kiss, murmuring, "Give me a ring when you get to the station."

"Of course," Thursday said, and kissed her back. They lingered there, but the moment was interrupted by sharp a knock at the door. Win grabbed the newspaper from the sofa and darted up the staircase after giving Thursday one last peck on the cheek. He chuckled as he watched her go - Jakes was a good detective, but Thursday agreed with Win that his haughty demeanor was maddening. But while Jakes was no doubt exasperating on a good day, especially when he was working with Morse, he always got the job done. And, Thursday thought as he opened the front door to the small blizzard raging outside, that usually made up for the sour look on his face.

“Sir,” Jakes said, nodding curtly in greeting. He was standing on their stoop, a cigarette clenched between his teeth, flakes of snow dotting his slicked-back hair. Thursday grunted a quick hello, and pretended not to notice the way Jakes looked over his shoulder and into the house, trying for a glimpse of Joan, no doubt.

Thursday closed the door behind him with a slam.

"Roads are getting pretty bad, sir," Jakes said, turning on the ignition. As they drove through the city, however, Thursday thought 'pretty bad' was a severe understatement. As a rule, the English were bewildered by any weather other than overcast skies and rain, and the sudden blanket of snow was proving difficult for unseasoned drivers. They passed more than a few minor wrecks on their way down High, but thankfully rush-hour was over and the snowy roads were otherwise fairly empty. Even so, Jakes found it in him to quietly curse the slow speed of the few vehicles they came across. 

"Any new cases down at the station?" Thursday asked, trying to lighten the mood after a particularly stressful incident involving a little old man driving down High at 5mph.

"Another body pulled from the Cherwell last night," Jakes said around his cigarette. "Unidentified woman, young, found around St. Hilda's by someone walking their dog."

"Any leads?"

"Not yet, sir. There haven't been any missing persons reports filed, but something's bound to come up." He shrugged and glanced over at Thursday. "Honestly, it looks like suicide if you ask me."

Thursday shifted uncomfortably at the word. "Well, we'll wait and hear what DeBryn says before we jump to any conclusions."

They continued on in relative silence, Jakes only periodically cursing the other drivers on the road. But when they arrived at the intersection, Thursday suddenly held up his hand before Jakes could make the usual turn down Cowley.

“Make a left down St. Clement's.”

“Sir?”

“I want to check on DC Morse.”

From the corner of his eye, Thursday could see the muscle's in Jakes' jaw clenching.

“Sir, do you really think it’s necessary—“

“Jakes. Turn right.”

“Yes, sir.”  

 

 

 ***

When they arrived at Morse's bedsit a few minutes later, the snow was coming down heavily, making it nearly impossible to see more than a few feet ahead of them. Needless to say, the drive down St. Clement's had been one of the most bloody stressful Jakes had ever experienced, and he was all too relieved when he was finally able to take his hands off the steering wheel and light another cigarette.

"You can stay in the car if you like, Jakes," Thursday said, as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

Jakes was almost thankful for the offer, but he didn't want to pass up a chance to wind Morse up. "I'll come actually, if you don't mind, sir. Might take two of us to wake up his lordship."

Thursday merely rolled his eyes and opened the passenger door to the raging storm.

Jakes followed Thursday, who seemed to know his way about the place, up to the second floor of the building. The stairs creaked disconcertingly beneath them, the carpet was stained, and Jakes reckoned the landlady had been too stingy to turn on the central heating. In short, the place was a shithole. But Jakes knew what it was like to try and make ends meet on a DC's salary, and so he did his best not to pass too much judgement.

"This it?" Jakes asked as Thursday come to a halt outside a forest green door badly in need of a paint job. Thursday nodded and knocked three booming times.

A moment passed - no answer. 

With a sigh, Jakes rapped on the door with his knuckle. "Open up, Sleeping Beauty!" 

Thursday gave him a look. "That'll do, Jakes."

After that they stood in silence, listening for any sounds of movement coming from within. There was nothing. 

"Maybe he went out?" Jakes suggested.

"In this weather?"

"Well, it's colder in here than it is out there." Jakes could see their breath rising in the frigid air. 

Thursday sighed. "Well, I'm going to go see about getting a key from the landlady." 

Personally, Jakes thought Thursday was overreacting. Rumour at the station was that Morse was frequenting the pubs earlier and earlier nowadays, and Jakes had a strong suspicion that's where Morse was. But he knew better than to get in the way of Thursday's doting father-son relationship with Morse, and so he kept his mouth shut.

He occupied himself with blowing smoke rings until Thursday returned a few moments later with an older woman shuffling along at his heels. She was stooped with age and seemed to have a bit of trouble walking, but she smiled when she saw Jakes. He was used to older women flirting with him, so he flashed her a smile before bringing his cigarette to his lips. As he did so, however, she moved a step closer, and he hoped to God she hadn't taken his smile as a come-on.

"Dear," she said, smiling broadly, "There's no smoking in the building."

He blinked at her in confusion and took the cigarette from his lips. "Excuse me?" 

"No. Smoking." She then proceeded to pluck the cigarette right from his fingers. Before Jakes could protest, she turned to Thursday and handed him the key. "I'll be downstairs in my office if you need anything, boys."

"Thank you, Mrs. Crabbin."

Jakes gaped at the woman as she hobbled away with his cigarette, and tried to ignore the slightly amused expression on Thursday's face. He opened his mouth to say that the place could do with some cigarette smoke to cover up all the other awful smells, but Thursday was too busy wrestling with the jammed lock to listen.

Finally, Thursday was able to open the door, and immediately they both forgot about what had just passed with the landlady. In fact, Jakes was almost thankful that Mrs. Crabbin had confiscated his cigarette - if he had still been smoking, it would have fallen right from his mouth at what he saw. Beside him, Thursday breathed out a shocked, "My God."

Morse's bedsit was an absolute fucking mess, and that was putting it lightly. There were clothes strewn across the floor, empty bottles of wine and scotch scattered across his desk and dresser, and records placed haphazardly around the room. At first, Jakes was inclined to think that Morse was simply a slob, but something about the room was off - furniture was overturned and broken glass was gathered on the floor near the window. It soon became clear that they were standing in a crime scene, though it took the both of them a moment to fully take that fact in. 

Thursday was the first to recover from the initial shock, though a pained look remained on his face. He stepped over a pile of clothes towards the small heap of broken glass, which he leaned over to inspect. "Sergeant, come look at this."

Jakes moved to where Thursday was standing and squatted down beside the broken glass. It looked to be one of the many empty bottles, smashed to pieces. If he looked closely, he could see that some of the edges were stained red. His stomach dropped. "Blood, sir?"

"Looks like it." Thursday rubbed the back of his neck, at a loss. "Botched robbery?"

Jakes stood up and glanced around the room once again, trying to take it all in. "Possibly. But, no offense, sir, it doesn't seem like there's actually anything worth taking." 

Thursday sighed, but agreed with him. "What cases was Morse working on lately?" 

Jakes shrugged. "Small ones, mostly. A car theft, I think."

"Was he working on anything else?"

For once, Jakes wished he was more informed about Morse's life. "I don't know, sir."

In the absence of any leads, they proceeded to comb through Morse's room for possible clues as to what had passed. Everywhere they looked there were signs of struggle - there was no doubt that Morse had put up a fight, but Jakes hardly found that comforting. What struck Jakes as the most disturbing, though, was the fact that Morse's record player lay upturned in the middle of the room. The one thing he knew about Morse was that he loved his bloody music, and seeing the player's needle sticking out like a broken limb made his stomach turn.

"Screw Mrs. Crabbin," Jakes muttered to himself. He reached for another cigarette because, Jesus Christ, he needed it. 

He was fumbling with his lighter when Thursday made a sound that caught his attention. "Sir?" he said, turning to see Thursday bending over Morse's bed.

“I may found something,” Thursday said, but his voice sounded uncertain. Jakes joined him by Morse's bed, which, like the rest of the place, was in a state of disarray: the sheets were thrown haphazardly to the ground, and the mattress was askew. Jakes noticed, however, that the pillow was placed perfectly at the head of the bed. This was a small detail but, all the same, it struck him as strange. Even stranger, though, was what was lying in the center of the pillow. With his handkerchief, Thursday reached out to pick up the object, and held it up to the light for both of them to inspect.

"What do you make of that, Jakes?"

It was an incredibly worn coin, fashioned from what looked to be bronze, and upon it there was some writing that Jakes couldn't make out. It was the engraved picture, however, that Jakes found the most curious. On the coin there was an angel, unclothed, with one arm raised towards the heavens and the other pointed at the ground. On its chest, there was an eerie red blemish - but whether it was Morse's blood or the abductor's, he couldn't be sure. 

He looked up from the coin. A shadow of worry had darkened Thursday's normally composed face. Jakes wasn't well versed in the emotional side of life, but he thought it might be his cue to offer him some words of comfort. All Jakes could say, however, was, "Honestly, sir, I don't know what to think." 


End file.
